Back to the Black Sea
Sun-blessed at last, I am finishing my creamy Bulgarian yoghurt with honey and walnut, served in a hand-crafted brown clay pot by a butch waitress that takes no prisoners. A monotonous dribble of Greek music in the background, masked by the friendly roar of the sea. How do you do, Black Sea? It's been a long time. I am no longer a wild-haired teenager but you...you are unchanged. You are as grandiosely handsome as ever. Lusty, lion mane-like waves are now crescendoing in front of me, before they dissolve into the colourless foamy brine that comes to greet my pale toes. A couple of overweight German tourists have ventured into the water, in spite of the warning red flag, secretly hoping to be beaten till they bleed by the puffy-eyed lifeguard. I think I just caught a familiar smell that only the trained native nose can discern. A fine fugitive blend of seaweed and fire-roasted peppers. The smell of late summer at the Black Sea. The fake fairytale castles and tacky fish f